


The Effects of Elvish Wine

by forsciencejohn



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Drunk!Thorin, M/M, No Relationship, but still kind of bagginshield?, the pairing tag stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:57:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsciencejohn/pseuds/forsciencejohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Thorin is worried about the Hobbit, and does a shit job of showing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Effects of Elvish Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this wonderful fanart by kaciart on tumblr. I hope what I've written is what you had in mind!
> 
> http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/40894357897

Thorin hated elves.  Even before Smaug’s attack on Erebor, his people had never gotten along with the arrogant woodland creatures of Mirkwood.  And when Thranduil had blantantly refused to come to their aid when they were fleeing the burning remnants of their kingdom, Thorin’s mistrust had deepened, seeping through his skin and settling into his bones as a deep and permanent loathing.

Still, he had to admit that they made good wine.

 _Too good_ , _actually_ , he thought to himself as he downed his fifth pint.  He and his fellow company members had settled on a balcony looking over the rest of the valley in which Rivendale lay, building a fire and cooking some of their rations in an effort to satisfy their grumbling stomachs (which had remained painfully empty after the elves’ dismal excuse for a dinner).  The wine had really been the only thing worth ingesting, and the dwarves had taken advantage of their hosts’ generosity by pilfering a few barrels of the stuff.  Thorin observed his companions from a small table on the edge of their little gathering.  The wine was helping to lift their spirits, he could tell.  Most of them were sitting around the fire, nibbling on sausages and chatting happily.  Even Dwalin, who always carried a fierce look about him, joined in the dwarves’ raucous laughter as Bofur tossed Bombur a sausage and caused the table the larger dwarf was sitting on to crack right in two.

Thorin was glad to see his friends in such good moods, truly.  But no matter how many pints of the sweet wine he consumed, he could not bring himself to join in their mirth.  His thoughts kept wandering to the road ahead, which was wrought with peril.  He could not help but wonder at what the future had in store for them.  Would this night be the last opportunity he had to see his company with smiles upon their faces?  Would all of them survive the journey and live to call Erebor their home once more?  Or was their quest as futile as Elrond made it seem?  He knew in his heart that no matter how much bravery his companions possessed, not all of them were truly fit for battle.  Balin was not as young and strong as he once was.  Ori was not even properly trained to wield a sword, and his little slingshot would be completely useless against any enemy stronger than the stupid trolls they had encountered.

And then there was Bilbo Baggins.

He had to admit to himself that he and the company probably owed the hobbit their lives—dwarves had no use for wit and quick thinking outside of battle, and once the trolls had disarmed them they had been powerless.  But wit alone wouldn’t be able to protect the halfling from a warg’s teeth or the mace of an orc.  The mental image of Bilbo lying upon the ground bloodied and bruised and lifeless had Thorin draining his sixth pint and slamming it on the little table with much more force than was strictly necessary.  He had barely known the hobbit for more than a few weeks, and yet the thought of his death was as unbearable as that of Fili or Kili.  There was something about the halfling that drew Thorin to him.  Some days it was all he could do not to pull Bilbo into his arms and physically shield him from the perils of their journey.  Hobbits had no place among the adventures of dwarves.  He knew that the logical thing to do, as the one responsible for the lives of the company members, would be to send Bilbo Baggins back to his hobbit hole in Bag End.

But as terrified as he was to subject Bilbo to the harsh road that lay ahead of them, he couldn’t bear to part with his— _their_ burglar.

 _Stop being a cowa_ rd, a voice inside his head hissed.  _If you were half the king you claim to be, you would send the hobbit to the safety of his home in the Shire.  Where he belongs._

“Shut up,” Thorin muttered, clutching his temple.

 _You are unworthy of the throne you seek_ , the voice persisted _.  Your selfish desires and possessiveness will only serve to get him killed!_

“No,” he growled, “I won’t allow it!”

_You won’t have a choice!  You’ve already barely escaped one orc pack.  What will happen if you face another, bigger pack, or a band of goblins?  What will happen when he comes face-to-face with Smaug—_

“STOP!” Thorin roared, jumping to his feet and sending the table and its contents clattering to the ground.  The wine made him sway slightly at the sudden motion, and someone was at his side in an instant, steadying him.

“Uncle Thorin!” Fili exclaimed, his face wrinkled with concern. “Are you alright?”  His nephew’s clear blue eyes were full of worry as he felt the grip on his elbow tighten.  Thorin looked up at the rest of his camp.  They were all staring at him, stunned into silence by his outburst.  He shook his arm from Fili’s grip.

“Where is the halfling?” he demanded, fighting the urge to sway.  It was imperative that he speak to the hobbit immediately, before he had the chance to talk himself out of what he knew he needed to do.

“I think he’s wanderin’ around not too far from here—said he wanted a look at the library,” Bofur answered.  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Last I saw he was that-a-way.”

Thorin huffed his thanks and set off in the direction that Bofur had indicated, stumbling after a few steps.  Fili rushed forward again to help, but Thorin waved him off.

“I’m fine,” he said fiercely, barely managing to keep his voice from slurring.  “Let me be!”  Ignoring the worried looks of his company, he unsteadily made his way towards the halls of Rivendale.

He stumbled around the Elvish city for Mahal knows how long, growing more and more frustrated by the minute.  He had begun to try and find his way back through the narrow pathways when he finally ran into Bilbo—quite literally.

“Ow, what the—Thorin?  Is that you?  Are you okay?”  The hobbit grabbed Thorin’s shoulders as the dwarf began to sway again.  Thorin furrowed his brow in an effort to concentrate on the frowning face swimming in and out of focus in front of him.

“Halfling,” said Thorin, gripping Bilbo’s shoulders, “I have been looking for you.”  He had to tell the hobbit his plan _now_ , before he lost his courage or forgot.

“Me?  Why? Wait, hold on—are you _drunk_?”

“It matters not!” Thorin yelled, pushing Bilbo into the wall behind the smaller man.  “I have urgent matters to discuss with you.”

Bilbo’s frown deepened.  “Yes, alright.  But could you please let go of me? Your fingers are going to leave bruises.”

Thorin realized he was still gripping the hobbit in a vice-like hold and removed his hands at once.  “Sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s alright,” Bilbo replied with a small smile.  Thorin found himself staring at the smile, suddenly fascinated. After a few seconds, Bilbo cleared his throat awkwardly.  “Now… what is this urgent matter you need to speak with me about?”

Thorin’s wine-addled brain took a moment longer than usual to process the question.

“Yes!” he exclaimed with a start, which caused him to lose his balance.  He slammed his hand against the wall near Bilbo’s head to steady himself before leaning in and peering at the hobbit’s face.

“Why… are you here?” he asked slowly, struggling to get the words out.

Bilbo blinked. “Um… I was looking through the library?”

“No, no,” Thorin grumbled, frustrated.  Damn the elves for clouding his brain with their sweet wine!  He took a deep breath and tried again.  “Why… are you… _here_.  With us.  And not… _home_.”

“Oh!  Well… I don’t really know, actually.  I suppose the Took in me was just craving an adventure.”  Bilbo smiled again, which made Thorin’s frown deepen.  Was the hobbit not taking this seriously?  Did he think their journey to be a game?  Did he not realize the danger he put himself in?  Thorin leaned in so that his face was mere inches from the shorter man’s.  Bilbo’s smile disappeared and was replaced with a small frown.

“You don’t belong here,” Thorin said seriously.  “It’s dangerous for you.  Your presence… worries me.”  It was true.  Bilbo belonged in Bag End, in his comfortable armchair, where he could read stories of orcs and dragons without _actually_ putting himself in harm’s way.  That was what was best for Bilbo, not this desperate, dangerous quest that he had so hurriedly signed up for.  “You should never have come.”  Thorin celebrated inwardly at his success.  Surely the hobbit would realize the truth of his words and agree to turn back.  He did not trust the elves to deliver Bilbo safely home, but perhaps Gandalf—

“ _No_.”  Bilbo’s harsh tone interrupted Thorin’s thoughts, and he realized that the hobbit’s face had turned thunderous.  He flinched as the hobbit jabbed a finger hard into his chest. “You listen to me, _Thorin Oakenshield_.  I’m going to assume you’re only saying these horrible things because you drank far too much.  Now obviously Gandalf asked me to join your company for a reason.  I don’t know what that reason was, but if it was good enough for Gandalf, then it’s good enough for me, and it should _definitely_ be good enough for you.  I didn’t back out after we almost got eaten alive by mountain trolls, I didn’t back out when we escaped from those orcs by the hair on our feet, and I’m _certainly_ not going to back out just because you think I don’t _belong_ here.  Even if you are the King Under the Mountain.  So you better get used to me.  Got it?”

Thorin’s scowl deepened at Bilbo’s words.  Clearly the hobbit was mad—why else would he become so angry after Thorin had offered him safety?  But as Thorin opened his mouth to retort, a sudden wave of nausea overtook him.  He barely managed to duck his head into a nearby flowerbed to avoid vomiting all over Bilbo and himself.  As he hurled the contents of his nearly empty stomach into the plant, he heard Bilbo sigh and felt the hobbit pull his long hair out of his face and over his shoulders.  The last thing Thorin remembered before slipping into blackness was Bilbo muttering, “Damn the elves and their sweet wine.”

As Thorin prepped his company to leave at dawn the next morning, he did his best to ignore the pounding in his head and the sick taste in his mouth.  Neither he nor Bilbo brought up their conversation (which he remembered perfectly, despite what he had told Balin).  But Thorin did take note of the scowl on Bilbo’s face.  He cursed his own foolishness.  In hindsight, he could see how his words could seem more like insults than offers of protection.  Still, while his concern for the hobbit’s safety still lingered in the light of day, his courage and his desire to press the matter had disappeared.

As they walked up the foothills outside of Rivendale and into the Misty Mountains, Thorin noticed that Bilbo had stopped on the side of the trail, and was looking down at the Elvish village.  Thorin’s heart was torn—the selfish part of him did not want to lose Bilbo from their company.  But the rational, protective part of him knew that if Bilbo expressed even a small desire to return to the Shire, he would not stop him.  After a few moments, Bilbo still had not moved.

“Mister Baggins,” Thorin called down to the hobbit, “I suggest you keep up.”  He had kept his tone carefully neutral, leaving Bilbo to make his own decision as to whether or not he wanted to continue.

Bilbo turned to look at him, and for a split second Thorin could see the indecision upon the halfling’s face.  But it was gone in a flash, and with a resolute nod and one final glance at Rivendale, Bilbo fell into line with the rest of the dwarves.  As Thorin turned to move to the front of their line, he allowed himself a small, private smile.  Bag End might be where the hobbit _belonged_ , but here, in the company of these thirteen dwarves, was where he _wanted_ to be.

Perhaps there was more to Bilbo Baggins yet.


End file.
